Tasks Playing Dress Up (#85) & Drink Pink Champagne (#37)
I played dress up for the for the first time this week while drinking pink champagne. There were no formal costumes, and the bubbly really hued a deep merlot…but after you’re thirty, colors start bleeding and you’re already avoiding the lighting and cumbersomeness of dressing rooms.
The combination, like Fun Dip and Road Trips as a child, sent my inhibitions into a tizzy. My senses perked awake, and the burden of perpetuating my normal practical approach to my appearance evaporated.
I wasn’t myself.
No, I was Bubbly…hyper…ready to get somewhere…excited about what energy I might bring to the destination. I wanted to be seen. It wasn’t as if my choice on the outfit involved deliberate selection. What I was out to do was to generating a feeling of upending my typical calculation White wig, a shirt long enough to function as a dress, but short enough for people to wander (is that a dress or a?) some black knee boats, and a mood that floated. That sparkled. That did not doubt or question or leave room for other’s opinions to stamp it with approval.
Here’s the thing, when I put on that wig, the spunky, confident, I don’t-give-a-fig-what-you-think-cause-I-know-I-am-hot K emerged. The kind that doesn’t rely on being noticed in order to sense her inherent worthiness.
More on this theme later: the trap of getting noticed.
For now, I remember that wig, that champagne, as a fond celebration of all the Ks that have been—that critter who always forgot to pee before beginning the road trip—and is, the professional who smirks imaging that the wig might come in handy to facilitate other tasks on my list: ask a guy out on a date, make a toast in a bar, go skinny dipping…
And while we’re at it, a little champagne doesn’t hurt either.
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